Yesterday morning, we noticed an APC on the crossroads between Askar Camp, where I am based, and New Askar, the neighbouring settlement. For days now the army has been setting up new checkpoints all over the place, and so it didn't seem extraordinary!

I didn't see the tank, further down the road, but the kids told us about it, and the other one and the other one .......... Soon, we had a bigger picture, New Askar was completely surrounded and cut off.

We were asked to intervene, as a group of women were trying to get back to New Askar, some of them with small kids, and a pregnant women and another with asthma were trying to get out of New Askar (which has no clinic) for medical treatment.

I set off with a friend, and we approached the APC, which the soldiers had not left so far. As we got closer, we were told to put our bags on the road, which we did. After some negotiations, and a phone call to the base, the soldiers agreed that "Old Women" could pass. Further negotiations, and it was agreed women, girls and boys up the the age of 6 could pass, but they would have to show their IDs and pass one at a time.
"After all, one of them might have a bomb strapped to their body" said the soldier in the middle.
"Look at them, how likely do you really think that is?" asks my friend.
"It has happened!" said the soldier.
"Well, if it happens we'll all go together, no?, I retorted.

So began the task of explaining what our negotiations had achieved to the assembled crowd. A rapidly growing crowd, it's ranks swelled by the young stone throwing boys, who used our presence to move closer to the APC, from the 50 metres or so they had been observing before we arrived.

Explaining what is happening, to a crowd of worried and/or angry Arabic speakers is no easy feat for two newly arrived English speakers. But somehow it worked, we got the kids to move back and the women to begin crossing over. Ignova stood by the tank, the soldiers checked the Ids and I tried to keep some semblance of order. As the last woman crossed, one of the soldiers approached me.

"I just want you to know that I hate doing this," he says.
"I'm not surprised", I reply - "It's not a pleasant way to deal with people".
"Soon I'll be out of the army".
"Some have refused to come here", I note.
"They are brave, it is hard for them" he says.

By now the boys are back, swarming around us, some still clutching stones - most seem to be between 9 and 11. Some of them suddenly remember that they live in New Askar, and need to get home! Amazingly, the soldiers indulge them, and they too pass the APC.


Ignova is now trying to facilitate those who want to cross from the other side. But her task is proving difficult. A bigger crowd of boys is gathered there. And they are not willing to listen, or to co-operate. Negotiations are breaking down, and we are losing any chance of redeeming them while the kids are here, pushing it with the soldiers.Now a soldier fires into the air. Ignova tries to get the last two women across but our luck is out.

I am aware that these kids are reacting to having their camp surrourded by "Jash" (soldiers) and "Dababeh" (tanks). I also realise that they are using our presence as cover, were we not here, they would move back. I persuade a reluctant Ignova that our only way forward is to take these kids back to the Camp, in the hope that we can find someone to translate, and enable us to negotiate with the boys. They are outraged that we are withdrawing. Six pre-teens grab my arms and clothes, and attempt to drag me back to the APC. I manage to drag them with me, but now Ignova is surrounded and one lad takes the opportunity to touch her inappropriately, a problem which has been encoutered by other female Internationals in the past. Now slightly older boys are demanding "Cigarro", but I know it is not permitted to indulge their request. One picks up a rock and threatens to throw it at me. I tell him this is not the way to win friends, but of course he cannot understand me.

So the raggledy, taggeldy group of us wend our way into the camp. We meet a lad of 12, who looks about 8 and who speaks impeccable English. He helps us facilitate communication a bit, but the other kids shout him down when we try to address them through him. I ask him to take us to the Cultural Centre, where I believe there is an English speaking member of the committee. We go via the OPEC funded Rehabilitation Centre which is closed, we try a side door and there is a tank, focussing its barrell on us. The kids begin getting hyper again.

Eventually we track down an English speaker at the cultural centre, and she calls the chairman of the camp committee, who tells us that he has tried talking to the kids but "today, for the first time", they will not listen. The whole camp is worried, he explains. He has had a call from the IDF Commander for the area, who has told him that they believe his cousin, a 15 year old called Mohammed, is planning to enter Tel-Aviv as a suicide bomber. The Commander has said that unless the boy's family turns him in, they will destroy the family home. There is a problem, he tells us. The boy did not go home last night, and no-one knows where he is. The family are terrified.

Ignova and I confer - this is a priority. The family are at risk, and we offer to arrange to spend the night in their home, so we can negotiate with the soldiers if they come. At the least, we hope our presence will curb some of the worst excesses that can happen on such "visits". We start making calls - we try and get back up to deal with the checkpoint, and to cover the other houses where we normally sleep.

Over time we learn that a new shift has started and the new soldiers are not prepapred to let anyone in. "Get back" they scream at the Internationals who approach, pointing their M16s directly at them. There is a stand-off and we know that we must avoid arrest at all cost, just in case no other Internationals can gain access tonight.

We wait it out in the Cultural Centre, chatting to the chairman who fills us in on the family we have acquired, they have twelve kids and some of them are real diddy.

We also talk about the boys, how they should be in school, how difficult it is to contain and occupy them when there are tanks and APCs to be stoned! I think of the lost generation in the dying years of Apartheid, how the kids boycotted their schooling, and fought for their freedom. And how little there was to offer a horde of young men whose only education was in resisting oppression, once liberation was achieved. I hope for everyones' sake that the same fate does not befall these guys, whose access to education is blocked by the illegal curfew, and whose daily routine is likely to include seeing tanks which arbitrarily start shooting, whose village is littered with homes demolished by the Israeli Army as part of their collective punishment policy, who constantly hear of terrible fates that have befallen their neighbours.

We meet the father of the missing boy, he is very upset. He welcomes the idea of Internationals staying in his home. Later, more Internationals try to enter the camp. The soldiers are not playing, they have fired tear gas at the boys. They inform the Internationals that New Askar is now "a military area" and is closed.

Ignova and I go to the home where we are due to stay the night. The children of the family range from 20 months to 20 years. Most are on edge, as is the whole camp. Trouble is expected tonight. A bulldozer has been creating roadblocks by digging up the roads and piling the rubble till it is impassable by vehicles other than tanks. The father is upset and angry. He says if it is true that his son is planning a suicide mission, then he would rather he was in jail than that he take another life.

Inexplicably, the tanks leave at about 9. Another International joins us, and the family sits us down to a meal which includes chips! They are not wealthy but the food is lovely. Later we drink coffee on the roof, with signs of military activity around the camp, a tank here, an APC there, an Apache in the sky, and the ocassional burst of gunfire and flares.

Slowly the house settles into a restless sleep. I agree to stay up and be the person to answer the door should the soldiers arrive, with a view to attempting to negotiate a calm and non-violent visit, if at all possible. I sit on the roof and it is quiet. At 2.45 I hear tanks and APCs on the move. There are shots fired. I go and sit by the door, listening to the occupants stir in their sleep.

But the soldiers do not come. At the first call for prayer I know we are ok for tonight. I go to bed. I wake a few hours later and see the little ones eating their breakfast in the tiny garden. All is calm. The family would like Internationals again tonight. We are few but we think it is important.

After a week of more and more checkpoints, and people being forced to operate in smaller and smaller public areas, the army announces that curfew is lifted for four hours, from 12 to 4pm. The last time was 9 days ago! The streets hum with life, people rush about getting essentials while they have the chance, children come flooding out of school, the girls in their blue and white check dresses. At about 6.30 a tank rides down the Main Road firing shots. Curfew is back on and tonight we wait to see whether this is the night the soldiers will come.